between the lines
by makapedia
Summary: She loves him like a best friend.
1. catalyst

"If you're not in love with him, why don't you prove it?"

"How, exactly?"

"Easy," Liz waves a hand. "Kiss him."

Soul chokes on his punch and nearly gags. Enticing. Maka finds herself rubbing his back and coaxing him through the finer details of breathing (inhale, exhale, there you go) as Liz smiles shrewdly.

"Wh–" He's sputtering. "Don't I get a say in this?"

Liz gives him a look that very clearly spells out his fate and he shuffles back into his seat, scowling deeper. Part of Maka thinks she should probably be a little more offended that he's so resolute in his disgust – she may be a kiss virgin, but she doesn't think she'srevolting – but she's kind of clammy at the thought of it too. Kissing him cannot be any more private than dancing in the depths of his soul, though, so she glares at his balking and wills him to suck it up.

He catches on quickly. He always does. "You're not serious, Maka."

"It won't mean anything," she says dismissively. "It'll be like kissing kissing your brother. You know I brush my teeth, Soul. And use mouthwash."

"That's not the point!"

If there's another point, she's missing it. She's thinking of nothing but Liz's knowing stare, Patty's shrieks of giggles, Tsubaki hiding a sly smile behind her hands. Maka sees Black*Star make a crude gesture with his hips and hardens her resolve.

"Soul Eater Evans," Maka says dangerously, lowly, in her meister voice. He stiffens at once. "Come over here and kiss me."

Something flashes in his eyes and Maka easily reads the betrayal in his wavelength. Scarcely does she pull the meister card on him, mostly because she doesn't like exploiting a power imbalance in a partnership that she views as equal, but desperate times call for desperate measures. She is nothing if not proud, and it's infuriating the way everyone looks at her like they know a secret she can't hide.

Soul is her best friend. Soul is her weapon. And she is not in love with him, not in the way everyone else thinks. There are other kinds of love besides romantic and sexual, and the platonic adoration she holds for him is second to none.

She would die for him. She would kill for him. She has done both. The life of a meister in Death City is not gentle and forgiving; it is dangerous, taxing, and she has seen more than her fair share of horrors in her twenty years. Perhaps it's that constant reminder of death around the corner that forces them together closer, closer, into a symbiotic existence that makes her value his life over hers on the battlefield.

But kissing him will not change how she feels. And if she can prove it this way, she will.

Soul glowers at her, his wine colored eyes cautious and nervous all at once, and part of her wants to pinch him to snap out of it. She can't understand what he's so nervous about; doesn't he have more faith in their friendship than that?

"Soul," Maka says again.

He turns where he sits, leaning an arm across the back of the couch. "This is so fucking stupid. I can't believe you're making me do this," he complains passionately, and both Liz and Patty simper. She wants to scream at him, or throttle him, or something, because he's protesting too much and doesn't make himself look very innocent.

But what do any of them know? Aside from Kid, none of them have soul perception. They can't read his very existence the same way she can.

"Just do it," she huffs. "And tilt your head. Or something. I've never kissed anyone before."

"Christ, I'm – I shouldn't be your first kiss, Maka. We don't have to prove shit to them," he says furiously, his eyes narrowed into haughty slits, and she doesn't think she's seen him this fired up about anything in a long time.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Kim sing-songs, and Maka's blood burns.

Before he can say anything else, before anyone else can tease her like they know her heart, she leans forward and grazes her mouth against his. Soul's lips aren't nearly as chapped as she thought they might be, and the kiss is over just as quickly as it's began. He gasps a second too late and claps a hand over his mouth, pupils blown wide.

It's over and righteousness fills her like liquid fire. "See," she huffs. "Nothing."

"Kiss him like you mean it."

Maka jerks a glare at Liz, pigtails whipping around. "I can't mean it," she says. "It's not like that."

Liz raises a brow and Maka glances back at her partner. He gapes at her, searching for words, and she chances a peek at his soul just long enough to read past the blatant anger and hurt to catch glimpse of surprise, and the saddest twinkle of rejection before his hands cup her jaw and he kisses her.

This time it is different. She tastes his mouth, warm and wet and hurried and angry, but still oddly satisfying and good. Tongues are something she's never really thought of before as pleasurable, but his is so dexterous and talented, and she feels a little like the souls he so enjoys devouring. Soul towers over her, leaning onto his knees to better slant his mouth over hers. He's going for gold, out to make a point, or maybe to show her up, but it's hard to think of anything except the way her fingers tingle and her head feels like floating away.

He releases her slowly, gradually, panting. There's telltale embarrassed blushing and it's not because he likes her like that, but because he's Soul and he isn't one to take charge or steal her breath away like that. He's people shy – even when it concerns her, apparently.

Or kissing her, at least. Her stomach burns.

Maka holds a hand to her mouth and shakes out a breath. Soul retreats back into himself, frowning deeply and sinking back into the couch cushions.

"… See," she reprises, voice wobbly. "Nothing."


	2. timber

For the first time in years, her weapon won't meet her eye.

His behaviour is reminiscent of the days of their early partnership, back when resonance was hard and wielding him was like tripping over her own two feet. It reminds her of when they first started living together, trying to learn how to coexist at thirteen, at the cusp of puberty and periods, training bras and voice cracks.

Puberty had been so good to him, too. At thirteen, he was cute but dorky, a little short, with horrible posture and a too-big jaw. He didn't get partnership requests in his locker before fifteen, when he hit Death Scythe status, and even then, he'd turned all of them down without even blinking an eye. Whether or not they were sealed with a heart was irrelevant, and the general female population had noticed way before Maka did that Soul Eater Evans was suddenly _hot._

His jaw is more refined now than ever before. He looks like a scared preteen, hiding behind sharp teeth and scythe blades, rapidly retreating into himself.

Soul fiddles with the key to their apartment and Maka watches the back of his neck. Pink burns along his skin, disappearing into his pale roots.

"Soul," she says quietly.

He grunts in response, keys jingling. He only has a few: his motorcycle, his key for their apartment, and his bedroom. There are so few but they're so noisy in the silence, clinking to fill the empty space.

She reaches for his arm. Soul flinches, then furrows his brows and mutters an apology.

His wavelength has never been so convoluted. It's terrible for her to cheat and peek, but she can't help it – he refuses to throw her a bone. He's hurt, he's upset, and most of all, he's confused, just as confused as she is, and Maka knows better than anyone else how Soul deals with his feelings – hidden behind a locked door, drenched in too-loud music and his doubts.

"No," she bites her lip. "… I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed."

He turns the key and kicks the front door open. "You always push."

" _Soul_."

"Why does it matter what everyone else thinks?" Soul snaps, shoulders taut.

The tension is thick and Maka has always been better at dealing with her discomfort through anger. Fighting is easy. Too easy, she thinks, but the damage has already been done and if she lets him lock this all away, they will never be the same. Wielding him will be near impossible if they can't get their wavelengths back into alignment, if they can't meet eye to eye.

She braces herself and grabs his arm to spin him around. Soul jerks and turns, towering over her, and Maka misses the days when she was the taller one. She squares her shoulders and stands on her toes, jabbing a finger at him. "It's _always_ mattered to you!"

" _Bull_ shit."

"You were so focused on being cool for _years!_ Don't pretend that you didn't care," she bites sharply. Her hands shake as she throws them down, and she wants to push him away, wants to shake and scream and kiss him again, god, what is happening to her? "It's always mattered to you what other people think!"

His expression darkens. "Not now," Soul growls. "I don't give a shit what everyone else thinks about our relationship."

"You don't care that they all think we're in love? That we're copulating on the daily?"

"It's none of _their_ fucking business, Maka! I don't care what they think," he stresses, and the darkness under his eyes has never looked deeper. His eyes have never been quite so red, quite so tired, quite so sad. "I _don't._ "

The way he glares at her makes her feel dizzy. Soul is a brick wall, emotionally and socially stunted, but Maka knows what to look for, and he's so worked up. The twitch in his brow, the heat in his eyes, the tightness in his shoulders – all obvious signs of her weapon's passion, his anger. He pushes a hand through his hair and it stands on end every which way. Maka wants to grab it, too. She doesn't.

He reminds her of the nights when he couldn't sleep, when he tucked himself against her in her bed. When their legs tangled and he tried to hide the sound of his cries into the back of her sleep shirt, but she knew better. She always did.

She swallows thickly. "I do."

"Why?"

Soul heaves a breath and she matches him. "… I don't like being made fun of."

It's the wrong thing to say. Before she can correct herself, Soul's jaw clenches and he turns away from her so quickly that she practically has whiplash. Her soul aches for his. Everything hurts and she wants him to hold her hand, wants him to lace his fingers between hers like he always does so they can go back to normal. It's movie night, for Death's sake.

"No, I didn't mean that–"

"Is loving me _embarrassing?_ " He demands, and he's shaking. Oh, she's hurt him so badly, so _deeply,_ and something in her screams in denial. "I didn't realize that anyone thinking you might be in a relationship with me would be so _humiliating–_ "

"I do love you!" She blurts. "… I _do_."

Soul goes tense. He pulls at his hair again, rubs his eyes, does anything he can except for look at her. She's lost that privilege, the right to look him in the face, and for a moment she is too afraid to stare at his soul again in fear that he will know. It's an unfair advantage, a delightful resource that he doesn't have access to, but she's so addicted to this scary, undefined partnership that they share that she needs to know that they'll be okay.

He's so quiet. Like the dead, like she's killed him, reaped his very soul and fed it to the hounds. Some _meister_ she is.

"… Don't say that," he says finally.

"But _I do_."

"Maka, come on. Don't lie."

The room his humid. It's hard to breathe, and Soul is halfway to storming into his room and locking her out forever, but she can't stop. She has to push forward, no matter what _this_ is, no matter what the mania in his soul is like.

Her fists clench at her sides, bunching up the fabric of her skirt between her fingers. "You're my best friend, Soul."

It's not a lie. It's never been a lie. He's her whole world and she loves him, god, does she love him. More than life itself, more than anything else, so much that it scares her how much she needs him, how much she adores him.

The look he sends her over his shoulder is positively demolished. "I know," he mumbles to her, and her chest feels tight, tight, tight, like there's something sitting on her and she can't breathe. She can't get words out. All she can do is stare helplessly at him as he crooks a sad little half smile and walks to his room.

He locks the door behind him and Maka touches her face. The tears are hot and violent and she chokes on her breath. It's impossible to reassure herself that everything is fine, that everything is going to go back to normal when she's murdered something very innocent and basic in him. His door can't hide the agony from her watchful eyes, ever so perceptive, and she wants to drown in his misery. She deserves it, not him. She's the one who pushes and pushes until she gets what she wants and then _he_ is left with the aftermath – with a scar down his center, with a locked door, with a broken heart, because his meister has finally ruined their partnership for good.

Blair lurks out from under the table. She brushes up against her leg and meows quietly, ears folded over, and Maka's hands press over her face as she cries.

He _knows_.

It's not _nothing_ at all.


	3. experimentation

"I need to ask you a favor."

She's wringing her hands together and hoping for a miracle.

"You can depend on your god in your time of need," Black*Star nods solemnly, and for a moment Maka wants to punch herself for ever thinking that this was a good idea. The wannabe deity may be her oldest friend, but he's also _Black*Star_ , narcissist to the third degree. "Ask me anything."

Here goes nothing.

"Could you kiss me?"

"No," he says at once. "Nuh uh, not a chance. That's against the bro code."

Maka sighs and rubs the bridge of her nose tensely. "Please?"

"Look," Black*Star plops down in front of her and takes her hands into his; she can remember a simpler time, when he was just seven and she six, when her hands weren't dwarfed by his and kissing wasn't even a thought in her mind. It seems like eons ago, a different age, back when things were easy and Maka didn't go around kissing her best friends. "If this is about what happened at the party–"

She burns red. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want you to kiss me, okay?"

"Jeesh, good to know you're this nice to everyone you want to swap spit with. No wonder why Soul looked like death warmed over this morning."

On any other day, she would've rolled her eyes and chalked it up to Soul being in one of his _moods,_ but Maka knows it's something else; he's private but not downright negative on any given day, and she's not sure if her weapon slept at all the night prior. How could he, she wonders, when she singlehandedly turned everything around? It's an abuse of her meisterhood, for sure, to force her weapon to kiss her when he's not comfortable with it, when he doesn't love her like that. Why rock the boat when everything works fine? When resonance is ( _was,_ now) as simple as putting one foot in front of the other and counting to ten?

She flinches back, burned, and snatches her hands back. They sit, folded in her lap, as she refuses to meet Black*Star's eye.

He exhales. "Damn. You're really fucked up over this."

"He hates me," she blurts, the words molten.

"Are you stupid?"

" _Excuse me?!_ "

Black*Star leans forward, brows knitted. There's a seriousness and knowledge in his glare that she's never seen before, not in him. " _Seriously._ I know you're not that dumb, Maka. He doesn't hate you. I don't think it's in Soul's nature to hate _you_."

She scoffs and slaps his face away gently. His nose flares but he doesn't move. "He won't even look at me. I really messed things up."

"No _shit_. You made him kiss you after straight up telling him you didn't love him," Black*Star says, and Maka curls into herself morosely. Guilt is crippling, smothering, and it swallows the last glimpse of hope that clots in her throat, the only thing keeping her from crying again. She sucks in a breath and tangles her fingers in the fabric of her skirt. Her oldest friend shakes his head. "He's fucking _whipped,_ Maka. He wants to make pigtailed shark-toothed babies with you. He has since he was fifteen, numb nuts. Goddamn, how oblivious can you get?"

Everything is twisted. She gapes at him, jaw drooping, and Black*Star taps his knuckles against her forehead. _Ding dong._

At fifteen, she hadn't thought about who she wanted to have children with. Hell, at fifteen, she hadn't even thought about sex; she'd known about it, of course, because she wasn't _naive_ and she read enough young adult novels to know the schematics, but she'd never really considered it as an option for her. It just didn't appeal to her in the way it did to other people her age. When she was fifteen, she was more concerned over homework and acing her exams, more concerned with _saving the world from madness and certain doom_ than her sexual prowess.

And even now, at 20, she hadn't thought much on it. Not until recently did she even give half a damn about kissing or tongues or Soul's mouth, god, but now here she is. Everything's upside down and backwards and twisted, so twisted, and she needs answers.

"… He does not," she says meekly.

"Maka," Black*Star knocks on her head again. "He's nuts about you. Where have you been?"

"He's my weapon!"

"Christ, there's no rule against getting sappy over your partner. Did you completely block out your childhood or something? Your parents fucked. A lot."

She grasps her pigtails and tugs anxiously. It can't be like that. A new bout of horror fills her, cementing her to her seat – what if Soul _does_ love her like that?

"Don't," she groans.

He grins toothily, smugly; she hates the way he's so self assured and how he thinks he knows more about her partnership than she does. "Still wanna kiss me? I dunno if sucking face with me is gonna make Soul any less a broody pissbaby, but if you still wanna try…"

"I don't want to," she wrinkles her nose, "but I have to. For science."

And so she kisses him. It's unceremonious, anti dramatic, and they lean in at the same time and bump noses twice before they figure out how to maneuver their faces together without poking any eyes out.

When Black*Star kisses her, she feels nothing. His lips are chapped and his mouth is warm and tastes a lot like cool ranch Doritos, but it doesn't bring the strangling heat to her chest that Soul's did. It's not comfortable, per say, and a lot weird, and the dampness of his tongue is gross in a way that Soul's hadn't been. There's no temptation to bite his lip or cradle his face, just a simmering desire to back away and brush her teeth.

"Oh," she blurts.

He raises a brow at her. "Second base?"

Her hand shoves his face away. " _No_ , that was – that was not good."

"My kissing skills are far superior to Soul's, thank you very much. He was trying to eat your face."

The revelation that she quite _liked_ being eaten sits in her chest like a weight. She breathes deeply, shoulders heaving, and presses her hands over her cheeks.

"Maka?"

Dazed, she blinks blearily at him. Her heart is hammering in her chest, pounding, threatening to break free, and she's sure she's going to be sick or something; how could something change so quickly? When had everything turned around? How long has she been okay with kissing Soul and not Black*Star, who she has known longer? Who is a brother to her?

Kissing Soul was _not_ like kissing a brother, and suddenly she's sure that kissing her was nothing like kissing Wes for him.

"I think you want to have babies ever after with him, too," Black*Star teases.

"I need to–" she tugs on her hair before hiding her face in her hands and groaning aloud.

"Talk to him?" he suggests. "Tell him that you want him to pound you into next week?"

"No," she moans, defeated. "I don't – I don't want sex. I don't _think_ I want sex? But I didn't want to kiss him, either, but then it was so nice, and kissing you was so gross, and you're my friend too, so–?"

Biting her lip, she curls deeper into herself; did Soul feel this way too? Has he always? Did he want sex? The love she holds for him is dynamic, apparently. So maybe she likes kissing him and kind of wants to try it again, but that doesn't automatically translate into a sexual desire too. The heat that pooled low in her belly when his hands cupped her jaw, though, has her second guessing herself. It was reminiscent of the same lukewarm discomfort she felt late at night, when her fingers soothed the ache and not the more recent thoughts of Soul's teeth.

She's worried that she loves him in a friends-that-kiss-and-hold-hands kind of way and not in the fuck-his-brains-out kind of way, and that being with her will hold him back. She'll disappoint him if she doesn't want the sex and he _does_.

Black*Star plops a hand in her hair and ruffles it. She mewls pathetically and swats him away, mumbling half-hearted threats and promises to get him back for giving her a hard time later. "Nerd Brain, shut up and just go talk to him. Crying all over the Great Me isn't going to fix your issues. He's your _partner_ for a reason."

That's just it, though. How long will the partnership last if they want different things?

She loves him, just maybe not in the way he loves her.


	4. breathe

She has to lay all her cards on the table and the thought terrifies her.

But Maka Albarn has never been one to shy away from anything, so she holds herself tall and puts on her brave face, the same one she wears as she slays demons and witches alike, and marches her way to her weapon's closed door. She thinks maybe she should've invested in a pie, or perhaps baked him a cake, because the way to Soul's heart is certainly through his stomach and she's wielding nothing more than her heart on her sleeve.

Maka is in between a rock and a hard place and it's all her fault.

There's nothing else Soul dreads more than talking about _emotions_ and _feelings._ He's so socially stunted sometimes, so tongue tied when it comes to putting the deep stuff into words, and this conversation is probably last on his list.

She's really thrown him through the ringer. Emotional whiplash isn't even the half of it; between the kiss, the _other_ kiss and the way she had demanded he move out of his comfort zone, she doesn't blame him for locking his door and hiding away. This is typical Soul, so reminiscent of young teenhood and the fights over who burned dinner, or who left the toilet seat up, except it's about their partnership, about love and sex and _attraction_.

It's about them, about where they stand. About _SoulandMaka_ and _MakaandSoul_ and just how deep their connection runs.

Her knuckles rasp against the back of his door and echo throughout the silence. "Soul?"

There's a pregnant pause punctuated by a grunt. She can almost see him rolling off his bed, running his hand through his mess of hair, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye.

Maka squares herself and tries his name again. "Soul? Can I come in?"

Resistance is palpable, but there's not even a hint of distaste in the glow of his soul or his wavelength and she hates the way it soothes her. She wants to drink him in, wants to hold him and let him know that she knows she's fucked up this time, it's not him. It's never been him.

"… Nngh," he groans again, and then there are footsteps shuffling towards her. "Hold'n…"

The lock clicks and she's faced with the sleepy, weary eyes of her weapon. He's stained by his nightmares, the insomnia that comes to him in flurries. It makes her sick to her stomach to know it's because of her this time and not all of his internalized fractures.

She bites her lip. "Hey."

"… Hey," he murmurs. His voice is husky and rough with uneven sleep. Her face pinks. "Need something?"

"Can we talk?"

"If this is about before…" he sucks in a breath, "I don't think anything's going to change by shouting about it again. I have a headache."

"It's important," Maka insists. "You don't have to talk, but will you listen?"

It's always been his strong point. What Soul lacks in eloquence and pretty phrases he excels in compassionate silence. Fundamentally, it's how their partnership works. How their partnership has always worked – she talks and cries and vents and screams and he listens, stoic, with a hand on her shoulder and solemn, dark eyes warming her from the inside out.

He tilts his head. "… Fine, yeah," he says and gestures for her to follow. They make their way over to his bed, despite the connotations (his teeth on her skin and his tongue down her throat, like at the party, but in a controlled, private setting), and she sinks to sit by him. Her hands sit on her lap, careful not to bump or touch him. "Go."

"I did some reading."

His brows don't even raise.

"… I know, big surprise," she bites off a laugh and he nods once, slowly. She stares at his shoulder and focuses on the wrinkles of his sleep shirt, a mangled old band tee that she got him two summers ago on a whim. "About attraction. And stuff."

"Mm," he hums. He rubs his arm, fiddles with his sleeve, taps his fingers. All anxious tendencies. Nervous habits. "Find anything useful?"

"I think I'm asexual," she blurts, because he deserves to know what the hell has been going on with her as of late and what he's dealing with here. "But… but I love you."

She watches the way the pink spreads down his neck, beneath soft cotton, to the tips of his ears. Her hands tug and fidget with her skirt. He's not saying anything, not pushing like she did, but part of her wants to know what he thinks. Is he okay with this? With her? More than anything else, she longs for his hand in hers, for the physical comfort he's so apt at giving.

Soul's adam's apple bobs and she lets it distract her.

"… You're sure?" he asks finally. His voice is low, as if he's afraid to break the peace. "Like… sure you're into me?"

"It's a _spectrum,_ " she explains, tightening her grip on her skirt. His eyes are on her hands, pressed so tightly in her lap. "I've never really thought much about it. I didn't think what I felt for you was any different than normal weapon meister stuff, but then…. well, you know what happened. I feel romantic attraction," Maka flushes and his knee brushes against hers. The touch barrier is broken. "I liked kissing you, Soul."

He clears his throat and oh, he's so cute when he blushes. "… The feeling is mutual."

"And it was terrible of me to push you to do it. I knew you didn't want to–"

"– I wanted to," he mumbles. "Really wanted to. Just didn't think I should be kissing you when you don't feel the same. Felt like I was taking advantage of the situation."

It's just like him; always careful when it concerns her feelings, her wellbeing. She hopes someday he'll have the same foresight for himself.

"… I know," she bites her lip. "And I didn't think I loved you like that then. You're my best friend, Soul," she breathes, and it's not a lie, it's never been a lie; he's her everything else, her partner, her weapon, her roommate – and then she's kissing him again, hands pulling at his jaw and cupping him gently, afraid to scare him away. He's firm against her, he's her rock, and his arms shyly find their way around her and stay there.

The kiss is not heated, not like their last. It's slow, exploratory, as they search each other for deeper meaning and understanding. It is nothing like kissing Black*Star. There is no discomfort, no distaste, just a warm lull of home and relief.

Soul presses his forehead against hers and breathes in deeply. His nose bumps hers and she laughs soundlessly.

"… Love to see how you kiss a boyfriend, then."

"Shut up," she huffs, then kisses him twice more for good measure. "… There's just one more thing, though."

"Maka," he warns softly.

"No, it's important," she insists, and slides her hands down to press against his shoulders. It takes her only a moment to appreciate the man her partner has grown into, how his slim shoulders have filled out, how his jaw has defined and his lean arms stretch. "You deserve to know."

"Huh?"

"I don't want sex. At least… I don't _think_ I do." She doesn't dare chance a glance at his face. "And if you… do, you know, want that… I don't want you to feel disappointed in our relationship, whatever _this,_ " she squeezes his shoulder and he exhales, "is. You can find someone else, if you'd rather have a girlfriend that is into stuff like that, or if you're uncomfortable with waiting for me to figure out my preferences."

She loves him. She really, really does, and she wants him to be happy – but also knows that there's no way she would ever be okay with knowing he was intimate with someone else while he was dating her. Not after watching her father's infidelity and how it affected his partnership with her mother. It's not the same thing, she _knows_ that, but the wound is still fresh and the thought makes her sick to her stomach.

She just wants him to be okay with her how she is most of all. With or without the sex.

His lips graze against her forehead. He dots touches of his mouth against her bangs, her brow, her nose. "I wouldn't be disappointed if it meant getting to kiss you. You're fine with kissing, right?"

Maka finds herself nodding, trying hard not to let the fluttering hope overwhelm her. Expectations are dangerous, especially if she allows herself to raise them, but with the way he's talking, she can't help it. Her face feels like it's burning.

"… I have a hand, Maka," he mutters close to her ear. She can't stop herself from grinning, even though it's crude and kind of gross, and the thought of Soul's hand and his lower anatomy makes her tummy do funny things. "I don't need sex. I've been fine so far without it."

"Are you sure?"

And she looks at him, watches the way his smile curves into something honest, watches the way his eyes warm as she mirrors him.

He brushes the pad of his thumb over her nose, her lips. "… Mm. Yeah. Pretty sure I'd be happy with anything, as long as it meant holding your hand."

It sounds perfect. She stifles the tiny part of her down that's still afraid, still unsure of the fairness of him giving up the chance of getting laid, and pulls him closer to her. It's not like they've never hugged before but this time it feels different. The hug feels closer, they feel closer, and his weight against her is just as reassuring as it is exciting.

"… But if I change my mind…" she begins hesitantly.

He chuffs and jabs a bony finger into her side. "You worry too much," he scolds, and laughs as she jerks out of his embrace and slaps her hands against his chest. Maka glares at him, momentarily betrayed. "Sex would be cool, but it's not necessary. If you end up wanting it, fine, I'm game," he shrugs, and Maka's pretty sure there's no way she could love him more. "But if not, that's still fine."

He smiles crookedly at her and nothing has changed. He's still Soul Eater in the yellow and black track jacket, slobbering over a cat's soul – only older, wiser, taller. He still looks at her like she's the whole world. She still feels like she's found her place.

"Just the soul matters?" she breathes.

"Nothing else."


	5. like a best friend

all of the reviews warm my soul! it makes me so happy that i've managed to produce something that so many other ace-spectrum people understand and relate to. i do want to say, however, that i've been writing Maka as demisexual through the entire thing, and while sex-repulsed aces are very real are very legit, it's not what i hc for her. that's not to say, however, that it's a wrong headcanon because i also love that interpretation! :) but being on the spectrum is confusing, and wading your way through it is tough, and i wanted to try and explore that some.

i wanted to finish this up with something sweet. it's not very physical, but it's always been more about the emotional for them.

* * *

She doesn't feel as naked in her pale pink bra as she thought she would.

Maybe it has something to do with the warm hand rubbing slow, gradual circles on her stomach. Maka closes her eyes and inhales, focusing on the low, rumbling heat in her belly and the way Soul's lips feel pressed against her shoulder.

"Soul..."

Her partner forces breath through his nose and presses his face into her neck. His mouth is warm and damp against her skin and it makes her tremble a little.

She licks her lips. "Soul, I want to try..."

His response is, expectedly, concern. Soul scoots his way up and cups his hands around her jaw, and she does her best to ignore his arousal pressing against her belly and the way his breath on her face makes her want to melt into the sheets. "You don't have to," he repeats like clockwork, spoiling her with little kisses on the tip of her nose and over the apples of her cheeks. "You can put your shirt back on."

She almost laughs, because it's _not_ about the shirt. It's about how comfortable she feels laying topless in his bed, despite her utter disinterest in such activities prior. It's about how when he looks at her she feels pretty, even in a plain bra and hickies blossoming on the slope of her neck. The warm, _redredred_ look of his eyes drink in the subtle shape of her and she likes it, loves it, and tucks her hands against the small of his back and tugs him against her.

Soul's nose bumps against hers clumsily. "I want to," she pleads. "Please? Can we try, just this once?"

He leans his face back and brushes her bangs from her eyes. "I'm sorry I took your shirt off," he admits, guiltily, and maintains shy eye contact. His fingers comb through her hair gingerly, framing her pink, pink cheeks with flaxen gold, pausing to press his thumb against her bottom lip. He never stops touching her, all gentle grazes and cautious, adoring kisses to her brow.

"... If you're sure," he mumbles against her skin, the apple of her cheek, stroking down the slope of her neck.

"I am," she says fearlessly.

They share a look. Maka nods and Soul kisses her mouth, lips soft and careful, hands sliding down her nearly bare shoulders. "Don't force yourself for me," Soul whispers, breath hot against her chin - fretting, adorably, as usual, but Maka tightens her grasp along his hips and tugs him to her. He groans, gravelly and broken, and the heat coiling low in her tummy tightens. "Maka…"

"It's not for you," she breathes back, grazing his hipbones, sliding her hands up, daringly, to stroke the edge of his scar. Soul sucks in a breath as she continues to rub the jagged line, the stitches, the raised, marred flesh curiously. He's never made these noises before, she thinks, and becomes more than a little drunk on the power of knowing she can turn him into a panting, writhing mess just from a few well-placed strokes on his abdomen.

"... Well, a little for you," she admits, quietly, "but for me, too."

"Okay," he murmurs, red eyes so murky with something Maka's never been able to put a name to. The fire churns within her, tears at her chest, where her heart trembles and quivers eagerly. " _Okay._ "

His look is searing, boiling wine red. Pupils blown wide, jaw slack, the particular shade of his eyes shadowed by the closed curtains and the midnight hour - he's esoteric, muted desire and something else, something devoted and adoring and just for her, and it's a little like drowning, letting him look at her like that. Like she's on the ocean floor, grappling, reaching, gasping.

Maka's never been afraid of the dark. When he slips a hand down her back and unclasps her bra, she pulls his face to hers and kisses him soundly.

There are no jokes about her body. No, Soul's long since outgrown those days. There's only appreciation, low groans as he grazes the peak of her breast with his long, slender fingers first, and then his tongue. It's warm and wet and somehow good, and Maka's head falls back into his pillows, back arching and howling his name. He flicks a glance at her, watching faithfully as he kisses and licks and nibbles, gently, on her soft, tender flesh.

She's either going to melt or spontaneously combust.

"... A little harder…"

Soul pauses. The sharp edges of his teeth tickle her breast.

She blushes bashfully. "I mean… you can, um... " she sighs and pushes her fingers through his hair, brushing his long, long bangs from his eyes. "... bite?"

The steadfast, devoted glow in his stare turns the heat brewing within her liquid. He moves against her with his lips, gentle, timid, before he goes back to the teeth, nibbling a bit more firmly. She closes her eyes and smiles, focusing on the pinpricks of sensation digging into her. Soul hums softly, moving to suck harder still, until he releases her skin with a pop and kisses the area as she moans.

"Always wanted to do that," he admits, guiltily.

She opens her eyes, dizzy with passion. "Battle scars," she blurts uselessly, dissolving into a nervous, restless giggle as he scoots down to kiss the actual battle scars that stretch across her ribs. They're old ones, faded with time, but they're there, nonetheless, and Soul pays his dues. She would be happy to sit and let him take his time, to really explore and map her body with his mouth and tongue, god, but the liquid heat pooling between her thighs is smoldering and suffocating, distracting, and she begins to wiggle her hips and squirm her way out of her sleep shorts.

Soul's breath catches in his throat and he stares, thoroughly preoccupied with the shimmying of her hips.

Eventually, though, he shakes himself out of his reverie and makes himself useful, hooking his fingers around the thin fabric and pulling it down the length of her legs. He swallows noisily, noticeably, as he reverently grazes the inside of her thighs, like religion.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice molten, eyes wide and so goddamn red. "Because I can stop-"

"Don't stop," she pleads. Her legs are shaking, trembling, and she wants to get lost in his touch, in the coil of their souls and the captivating way his eyes seem to stroke her, so much more firmly than his mindful hands. All clothing needs to go. Her panties are too much, and she makes to get rid of them as soon as possible as Soul just about chokes on his tongue.

"Hey," he catches her hands. She didn't even notice they were shaking. "It's okay. Calm down."

"I _am_ calm."

He smiles earnestly and leans to press a kiss against her hip. "It's just me," he murmurs, his voice nearly lost in the ruffling of the blankets as, together, they undress her. "Just me," he repeats, though now it's him that's quaking.

"Soul?" she squeaks. His mouth droops, kissing her hip, the inside of her thigh, the area where she trembles from, damp and ready, so ready. "I trust you."

The heat from his face is a reassuring warmth against her thigh.

It's his first time too, she realizes. He's never done anything like this before - always waiting for her, always watching her, never once sparing a glance at anyone but her. His devotion fills her chest with an unexplainable blanket of longing and she writhes against his sheets, grasping for his hand, squeezing his fingers between hers.

"What's it like for you?" she breathes into the darkness. The night time chill has her on edge, peaked nipples and little shivers that Soul enjoys silencing with the warmth of his tongue.

He stills for a moment, considering. "... Good," he allows. "Really good."

"Does it feel right?"

He catches her face in his hands and kisses her slowly, surely. "Like nothing else," he mumbles against her lips.

Maka beams, twinkling beneath him. She cups his jaw tenderly, like he's a fragile bird that needs to be treasured, cradled delicately in her hands. "Me too."

He has so many more freckles than she's ever realized. Even in the dark, she can make them out, stippling along his eyelids, over his nose, and his lashes are so fair but so long and graceful, fluttering over his cheeks every time he blinks.

"... There's no one but you," he whispers, like it's a secret, a hushed breath shared between them. "It's always been you."

She realizes, after Soul fiddles with a condom and sinks into her, pressing his forehead against hers and puffing out a breath almost painfully, that he's just like her. He loves her the same way she loves him - so dearly, tenderly, and values their connection more than anything else. Meeting with him, body and soul, is otherworldly, like moving with the tide and burning up, immersed with each other and coiling so desperately that it's hard to decipher where Soul ends and Maka begins.

And he's _just like her_. Except he's always just known that it was her, always her, without putting a name to it.

Soul's good like that. He doesn't need words to convey his feelings. He's better with actions, with brushing her damp bangs from her eyes and kissing her deeply, enraptured, as he comes undone, blushing and gasping.

Maka presses a smile into his shoulder.

"... You're my best friend, you know."

Her partner laughs, body trembling with exhaustion, and scoots his way down to the foot of his bed. "Shaddup, nerd," he sounds, affectionately, and spreads her legs. He nuzzles her inner thigh, where she's still so invitingly sensitive and she gasps, keening. " _Duh_."


End file.
